Because the great secret is, nothing is gone.
Time is a crystal; everything is still happening.
The memory of the universe is infinite,
Is this any comfort? A little, I think.
It’s not the eternal recurrence of the same
Or God in his heaven, but maybe it helps
When the night is black and the midnight thoughts
Are spiraling around things lost -
When the world feels intolerably empty
Of one particular person,
Of whom it used to be full.
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